Prince's Shadow
by Skyborn Huntress
Summary: Kíli's always been in his older brother's shadow. Fíli is the fair-haired prince. The prodigy. Thorin's heir. And Kíli is, well...just Kíli! Fortunately, Kíli doesn't mind the expectations too much, until the day family honor means he's forced to be a prince, too. What ensues is an adventure filled with the antics of dwarflings, life in exile, family feuds, and Durin feels, oh my.
1. Chapter 1

**Prince's Shadow**

_Skyborn Huntress_

**A/N: **Age conversion: Fíli is thirty-three in dwarvish years, Kíli is twenty-eight. That's thirteen and eleven in human terms.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_TA 2892._

"_Must_ they come here?" Kíli asked, fidgeting upon the kitchen stool. At his back, Dís was busy weaving his unruly raven hair into more respectable braids. Though his ama's leathery hands were gentle, he could not stop tears prickling at his eyes when she unwittingly tugged too hard.

"Dáin is your cousin, and so is welcome here," Dís reminded. "Now, let's not hear that tone out of you when his family arrives."

She had not answered his question. Kíli squirmed protest.

Dáin Ironfoot's kin resided in the ancient settlements among the Iron Hills; Fíli had shown him on a map, and it was far away to the east, beyond the wall of Misty Mountains. He had asked his brother if that was where they used to live, too, before the dragon, but Fíli had scoffed at him. That was _Erebor_, stupid, and didn't he ever think before he opened his mouth? As if dwarves would still be living there with a great stinking dragon slumbering in their Hills.

Fíli was right, of course. Fíli had never seen Erebor, either, but he was thirty-three and knew about a great many things. Kíli supposed Fíli knew why Dáin had come all the way to the Blue Mountains, too.

Dís sighed. "In any case, he and his kin will be here shortly, and they will stay until your rada has settled his words with them. I know it will be hard on you, Kíli, but please – do try to keep a good tongue in your head."

Kíli did not answer, for presently her absent hands caught a snarl buried beneath his mane and his eyes watered. "Ouch!"

"Didn't I tell you to brush your hair, Kíli?" Dís clucked her tongue and reached for her comb, neatly tucked in her beard for safekeeping, to untangle the knot that had ensnared her fingers.

"I did _so_," the dwarfling protested.

Yet, he would admit, it had been a very hasty undertaking: he and Fíli had been racing to be the first out of the house to meet Master Dwalin on the practice field. Master Dwalin did not even have any hair (atop his head, at least), so Kíli could not see why it mattered if they wore proper braids or not. But Dís had caught them pulling on their boots in the hall and told them there was to be no training on Durin's Day, and they had to neaten themselves up for their visitors.

Thus, ten minutes later, Kíli found himself hunched on the wooden stool, fighting a losing battle against the stinging in his eyes.

"Stop – stop it, that hurts!"

"Sorry, mizimuh." Dís's voice was warm with affection and just the slightest hint of amusement. "Perhaps if you held still now, it wouldn't hurt as much."

"He's just being a baby, that's all," said Fíli helpfully.

Kíli scrunched his nose and stuck out his tongue at his brother. Fíli, of course, was already finished. Two neat golden braids framed his face and he sat across the table, his feet propped up on a second stool, idly gnawing on an apple. There was a glint of mischief in his blue eyes as he watched Kíli undergo what he could only term Unfair Torture.

"Fíli, put your feet down. There, now," said Dís, giving the first finished braid a flick. As she moved to his opposite side, Kíli shook his head; the silver bead bounced against his cheek.

"_Must_ I wear the braids?"

Dís only chuckled as he crossed his arms and huffed. "You're a prince of Durin's folk, so yes, you must."

"Amn't." Kíli sulked. "_Fíli_'s a prince. I'm Kíli. Just Kíli."

"Fíli is your rada's heir. You're the heir after Fíli. So you're still a prince, I'm afraid." Dís concluded her explanation with a light poke upon his nose. It tickled, and Kíli's scowl crumpled.

"I don't want to be a prince."

"Sorry, mizimuh." Dís tucked her comb back into her beard and took up his hair in both hands, dividing it into three strands. She wound them together as gently as possible, yet Kíli still fought a grimace.

"You know, your rada wears rayad's braids, and I swear I never hear him complain."

"He does?" Kíli asked curiously.

Dís smiled absently. "Sure, he does. And Fíli, too."

Kíli looked across the table at his brother, round-eyed. When Fíli had turned twenty-five and Dís first taught him to braid, Kíli had noticed that his were the same as Uncle Thórin's (though, of course, Fíli's handiwork was scruffier, and ever so slightly lopsided).

Kíli knew that dwarvish braids spoke an intricate language of their own: their location, thickness, and even the colours of added threads and trinkets spun tales about their wearers. Dís wore a long rope that tucked from behind one ear to the other and symbolized her marriage. Kíli had seen dwarrowdams in the village wearing the colours of their husbands' houses, but his ama's dark hair bore no ornamentation but the silver clasps of Durin's line. He had never asked about that: Dís always looked sad and turned away when he asked about adad, and Kíli had always supposed it was because she had nothing of his left.

He had never asked about Fíli's braids, either, but that was different. Kíli had made the mistake of calling his brother's careful braids lopsided, and after Dís had left the room a red-faced Fíli had tackled him to the ground. It had been one of their nastier fights, filled with hair-pulling and bruises that smarted the next day. Fíli had apologized afterwards: Kíli might not know when to hold his tongue, but Fíli was the crown prince, and he was supposed to be able to stay his hand. After that, in Kíli's mind, the braids did not exist, rayad's braids – prince's braids – or not.

"Why?" Kíli asked presently. "Rada's King, isn't he? Shouldn't he wear king's braids?"

Dís did not answer. Her hands had stilled in his hair and Kíli twisted around to look at her, accidentally yanking his hair enough to make his eyes water anew.

"Sorry, my love." Dís resurfaced from her thoughts and rearranged the portion he had dislodged. "Yes . . . your rada is the rightful King under the Mountain, but he is not a king here."

Kíli blinked, bemused. A king was a king, no matter where he was, wasn't he? He pressed, "But he's still _the_ king, isn't he? Master Dwalin calls him King –"

"Aye, he's the king," Fíli chipped in, fishing for another apple from the bowl on the table. "But he ain't got a kingdom now."

"_Doesn't have_ a kingdom," Dís corrected him.

"Doesn't have a kingdom," Fíli parroted, busily shining the apple on his sleeve. "Rada's King, but in exile. We all are."

Kíli reflected in silence. Uncle Thórin was a king by birthright – he was _melhekh undu abad_, King under the Mountain – and yet he did not lead a kingdom, nor wear a crown.

That made him a lot like a prince, Kíli supposed.

"So . . ." his brow pinched in thought, "So if Rada doesn't wear proper _king_'s braids . . ."

Dís had the foresight to know where his thoughts were headed. Chuckling, she kissed the top of his head. "As soon as Dáin is gone," she promised, "you can go back to being Kíli-just-Kíli, my little wildling. Until then, at least _pretend_ you're as civilized as your brother."

With that, she gave his finished braid a little swat, and Kíli was free. He hopped from the stool and ran to Fíli's side, the silver beads slapping against his cheeks. He stuck his hand in the near-empty fruit bowl and grabbed an apple before his older brother could eat them all.

"Pig," he said, wrinkling his nose.

"Whelp," answered Fíli, sticking out his tongue.

* * *

There was to be no training for either of them that day. Dís had them wash their faces and hands and dress in their clothes reserved for Special Occasions. Kíli tugged on a midnight blue tunic, trimmed with gold thread in the interlocking designs of Durin's house. Fíli's was identical, but a little broader in the shoulders to fit his growing stature. The silk fabrics had been a present on their respective naming-days from Dori, who was a weaver in Overhill.

Kíli plopped down to pull on his boots. The braids swung into his face with the motion: the cold beads hurt his cheeks just a little. Boots donned, he reached up and fiddled with them, unclasping and clasping the silver beads until Fíli crouched in front of him. Gently, he tugged Kíli's hair out of his hands.

"Ama worked hard on those."

Ruefully, Kíli saw his fidgeting with the clips had made the ends all tufted and straggly. His hands fell back in his lap.

"How can you wear them all the time?"

"Because I'm the prince, I guess," shrugged Fíli. He gave Kíli's hair another light tug, as if his braids were the reins of a pony, and then let him go. When he rose and held out his hand, Kíli took it. His brother hefted him to his feet.

"Princes ought t'do whatever they want," Kíli decided.

At that, a grin broke across Fíli's face. "Oh, agreed. But Rada's still King, so we'd better do whatever _he_ says first. C'mon, Kee: if we run to the lookout-hills, we might get to see them first."

* * *

Dís said there was to be No Running.

In the end, the brothers were hardly the first ones down to the lookout-hills. Most of Kaminhund – the above-ground dwarvish settlement that the Rangers and traders called Overhill – were already there. Blacksmiths came up from their forges, arms and faces stained with soot. There were wood-carvers, farmers, squinty-eyed miners, and one or two dwarrowdams restrained curious children. It was a motley crowd of Longbeards and Broadbeams that had gathered, some out of curiosity and others out of custom, to greet the dwarves of the Iron Hills.

At the crown of the rightmost hill, Uncle Thórin waited stiffly alongside his council. Kíli knew most of the older dwarves by name, but today none of them smiled in recognition. At Thórin's right hand Dwalin stood with his burly arms folded across his chest. To his left, Dís laid a hand on her brother's arm, her gaze distant. She looked very queenly in her pale blue gown, silver beads in her beard and her dark hair wound into three plaits that joined into one at the base of her neck. Later, Fíli would inform him, that was rayadinh's braid – the princess's braid. At her throat was a pendant of glittering mithril, the last to be smuggled from Erebor.

Thórin stood tall and regal between his retainers and his sister. The King under the Mountain wore no crown. Instead, he was robed in his best fur, the black sable one, and his hands were heavy with gold rings. His expression remained an unsmiling mask of stone when his sister-sons approached. _King, not Rada, _Kíli thought, and he instinctively slipped into Fíli's shadow, grabbing his hand.

Dís had the boys scuttle into place between Masters Balin and Lofarr. At once Fíli straightened, puffing his chest, trying his best to look the part of a regal prince. Sunlight caught in his hair, turning it to gold. In his shadow, Kíli did not feel much like a prince at all. The tufted ends of his rayad's braids dangled in his face, and he could not understand why none of the others was smiling. It wasn't as if all _their_ amas had forced braids into their hair.

A horn called beyond the hills; Kíli drew a breath and felt Fíli's hand squeeze his, sharply.

All at once, Kíli felt braver.

He stood up on his toes and puffed his chest and _smiled_ as Dáin Ironfoot's party approached. And soon he was not the only one. The exile had not been so long that the Longbeards did not still have kin among the Iron Hills; and as the dwarves grew near enough to recognize each other they cried out in incredulous reunion.

Dáin Ironfoot had brought with him a company of twenty warriors. For every dwarf among them, there seemed to be two ponies: one to carry him, and another with bulging bags of supplies strapped to its saddle. The warriors wore glinting mail, swords and axes belted at their sides. Their beards were long and braided, beads and odd bits of metal dazzling in the sunlight. Kíli had never seen such a regal procession.

Dáin himself rode at the head of the party, escorted by two dwarrows in bronze mail. The warriors were fascinating, but Kíli could not look at them for very long. Dáin had recognized Thórin and was dismounting.

"Thórin Oakenshield! How long has it been?"

"Since Azanulbizar, cousin," said Thórin, stepping forward.

"Aye, Azanulbizar." Dáin's eyes crinkled. "Your beard has grown longer, but I would say your severe face has not changed."

Thórin lifted an eyebrow. "And I would say you have not changed either, Dáin."

At that, the Lord of the Iron Hills threw back his head and laughed; he had a warrior's booming laugh. Thórin only smiled thinly. In three long strides Dáin reached him, clasped his upper arms, and embraced his kin, a lord to a king.

After that, it was all good manners and propriety, and Kíli let the words wash over his head as he examined their cousin. Dáin Ironfoot was sharp-faced and dark-haired, like Thórin, but he had yet to bear Rada's streaks of silver. Dáin's beard was not quite as long, either, and divided into two heavy braids. He, Kíli noted, did not have to wear rayad's braids. He was dressed in scarlet velvet, gold chains at his throat, and a red axe with a heavy head hung at his side. Kíli found his eyes drawn to the axe most of all; it was taller than he was.

When Thórin at last stepped back, Kíli knew the proper greetings had been exchanged. Rada now looked back at them. Fíli tugged at his hand; Kíli stumbled forward in his shadow.

"My sister, Dís; and my sister-sons, Fíli and Kíli."

Family introductions would follow the formal greetings. Fíli bowed, and Kíli followed clumsily. When he raised his head, the beads smacked his cheeks and he tried to look as if it didn't hurt. They stood before the eyes of entire company and their restlessly pawing ponies; Kíli tried to look as solemn as Fíli, as if he wasn't afraid, as if his heart wasn't fluttering to escape his ribs.

Respectfully, Dáin kissed Dís's hand and extended a nod to Fíli.

"A blond prince of Durin?" he mused, looking at the eldest prince.

"His father was a Firebeard," Thórin said.

"Ah," said Dáin. Then the stern face behind the beard crinkled. "But by the swords on your back you take after your mother's line, do you not?"

Fíli bowed again, his ears slightly pink.

It was only the second time Kíli had heard their father mentioned. He had never seen him, never known his name. But now was not the time to wonder about his father, for Dáin had stepped in front of him, looking him head to foot.

Kíli clutched to Fíli's steady hand. He jerked up his chin and held the Lord of the Iron Hills's stare, fighting not to tremble. He stood there with his messy braids and his boots scuffed with dirt from running down the hills, waiting for Dáin to say something, to call him a wildling like Dís did.

But when Dáin spoke, it was not to him.

He turned away, calling his own family forward. "My wife, Éira, daughter of Álfr," he said. "And my eldest son, Thórin."

Kíli's eyes went to his youngest cousin. Dáin's son was two years younger than him; he remembered because he had the same name as his rada. This Thórin was still beardless, a coppery braid descending from his right temple. He had a dwarfling's rounded face, but a proud jut to his chin and high cheekbones; someday, maybe, he would grow into them. He wore black velvet, a gold buckle on his belt, and a red weasel fur draped across his shoulders. He looked very proper and princely. When Thórin saw the scruffy raven-haired dwarfling looking, his upper lip curled a little, and so Kíli looked away again.

Rada completed the ritual greetings and, as dwarf custom expected, extended Dáin Ironfoot's welcome to their peace-halls for however long he desired to stay.

* * *

There was a great feast that night in honour of Durin's Day, the changing of the year, and Dáin's arrival.

The Longbeards' great mead hall was called Zahargund in their language, and the Underhall in more common tongues. That evening, the long fires of the Underhall blazed brightly; laughter and merry songs ran the length of the table. Some of the younger dwarves had been recruited to help the cooks, and they scurried about, refilling cups, bringing fresh serving-platters, and cleaning the worst of the spills.

Thórin sat at the head of the long table with the Lord of the Iron Hills and his family at his right hand. Dís sat to his left, and then Dwalin, and then Fíli and Kíli, with Balin on the youngest prince's opposite side. It was a position of honour, Kíli knew, and he tried his best to behave, but it was hard.

It wasn't due to a lack of food. That feast alone would have fed all of Overhill for a week. There were more courses than he could bother to count, and golden ale flowed constantly by his place. Kíli had to wonder, if he was the king and all, why Thórin didn't simply decide they could eat like this all of the time. If he was ever King, Kíli decided, that would be the first thing he'd do.

The pages always brought their steaming dishes to Thórin and Dáin first, so the princes had their choice of cuts from the stuffed pig and roast duck. Then came mountains of mashed potatoes on golden platters, sliced wheels of salted cheeses, green pea stew and oat porridge, and so many other things Kíli didn't have names for. He wanted to try some of everything, including the ale. For a long while Kíli occupied himself piling and re-piling his plate, and Fíli had to keep kicking him under the table.

"Chew with your mouth closed, stupid," he hissed.

Kíli shut his mouth obediently and swallowed, but when Fíli turned away he put his head up against his shoulder and playfully growled like a wild wolf.

"Shove off."

This was why it was hard. Sitting up at the king's left hand meant they had to be quiet and listen to Adult Conversations. Thórin and Dáin ruminated about gold and mining and the great eastern road; Lady Éira queried Dís about what life was like above ground. Fíli absorbed it all in solemn silence, prodding at his food. It was all very boring to Kíli, and by the second course he was already fidgeting.

Fíli was being princely enough for both of them, Kíli thought. Enviously, he wished Thórin had let him sit down the table with the warriors, who were having a grand time roaring over bawdy tales, swapping old war stories, and drinking the kitchens out of ale. Even Balin, seated to Kíli's left, was dabbing at his eyes, pleasantly pink-faced.

Kíli looked across the table at cousin Thórin, who looked almost equally bored, a pouty sort of curl to his lips. He wasn't a prince, either. Kíli opened his mouth to ask him about more interesting things ("things Kíli found interesting" including ponies, swordfights, climbing trees, and plotting new tattoos for Master Dwalin's head), but Fíli aimed another warning kick beneath the table.

Thus Kíli sat glumly through the soup and then the arrival of the dried whitefish. The lutefisk smelled weird when the pages carried out the trays, and Kíli was all too glad to let it pass over him to the warriors. But Fíli scraped some off the platter onto his plate.

"Don't be rude," he whispered. "You've got to take some of everything."

Kíli said nothing. He wrinkled his nose and glared down at the gelatinous fish.

This was the worst part of sitting at the king's table, he brooded. Tonight Fíli had become Prince Fíli and wouldn't talk to him except to tell him he was doing something wrong. Kíli stabbed at the fish. It slid off his fork again, and he commenced picking it apart, bit by bit.

At the head of the table, Dáin turned his attention to Fíli to ask how his training was going. Fíli answered respectfully, straightening in his seat and giving full credits to Masters Dwalin and Balin where it was due, and he mercifully stopped hounding after Kíli and his fish.

"– remarkable that you've raised them so well. I can't imagine what I would do with my two, without the protection of stone over their heads –"

Kíli mimed Lady Éira's fluttery words. _Raised them so well,_ he mouthed, stabbing the fish and ripping it in two. _No stone to protect them. _Stupid stinky fish.

"It's the swords for you, eh, lad? Ever tried your hand at an axe?"

"– but surely there are wolves in the woods, and other terrible things," Lady Éira shuddered. "You must be very brave to have lived out here this long!"

Kíli could no longer tell what had been on his plate. The lutefisk had been mashed to little grey-and-white bits that had a disconcerting resemblance to brains. Kíli stabbed at it again, ruthlessly, and some of the bits toppled over the edge of his plate.

"_Kíli_!" said Dís, aghast. "What on earth are you doing?"

Guiltily, Kíli looked up. Suddenly, they were all looking at him. His ama's expression was horrified, but Thórin merely looked resigned. Kíli's nose scrunched and he looked back down at his plate.

"I _hate_ fish."

Dís sighed deeply, but Thórin raised his arm and one the pages took away the plate of mangled fish. Fish-bits still hung on his fork. Kíli clutched it, his mortified stare now focused on the empty space on the table in front of him.

He had done badly, he knew, and it would reflect on Rada and Dís. Fíli was giving him his _I-told-you-so look_, and cousin Thórin was smirking.

From then on, Kíli determined, glowering at the crusty fish-bits on the tabletop, cousin Thórin would be _Thorny_. His haughty smirk prickled into his skin like a thorn, and his cousin didn't even _look_ like Rada, anyway. It was stupid to name dwarves after other dwarves, Kíli decided. All it did was make everyone confused.

Kíli brooded for the rest of the meal. They had an apple pie among the many desserts, which was Kíli's favourite, but Thórin sent it down Dáin's side of the table, so he was stuck with the custard pudding instead.

Kíli poked at it with his spoon until it wobbled and glared at Thorny, who had the apple pie. He wasn't particularly hungry for dessert, but the fact of the matter was all. In fact, he was thirsty more than anything.

Kíli looked around. For once, the pages were nowhere to be seen with their sloshing jugs of ale.

To his left, though, Master Balin had a full cup, pink-faced and merry as he swapped stories with some of the Iron Hill warriors, who seemed to be his companions-at-arms from long ago. It would be easy to swap cups while no one was looking. Kíli's hands were small and quick, and Balin was very drunk.

But he had a feeling that would make Dís and Thórin _really _angry, so he sat tight through the last course, his hands clutched in his lap, until Dáin rose from the table and Thórin followed, and they could all finally leave.

In the end, Kíli thought, it had been something of a waste of an evening.

* * *

Dís exploded as soon as they returned home. She let the glass beads out of her hair and it spilled in wild, black tangles down her back as she paced before the hearth.

"_Never_, in all my life -!"

Kíli flinched and looked at his feet, but his mother's ire was not directed toward his atrocious table manners. Dís turned to her brother when he entered the room.

"Thórin, did you hear that woman? Oh, I must be so _brave_ to raise my sons without a stone roof over their heads! As if they'll turn into wildlings as soon as I turn my back!"

Kíli's eyes went as wide as saucers. He had never heard Dís so angry, not after all the times he had snuck out into the woods or skipped lessons to go tree-climbing or painted Master Dwalin's head green. Maybe it was just the ale making his head fuzzy, but he started to waver on his feet.

Thórin said nothing at once as he sank heavily into an armchair by the fire. Flickering light danced across the shadows below his eyes. It occurred to Kíli that he had never seen Rada look so tired, either. He had fetched a pint of ale from the kitchen and cradled the cup against his temple.

"Dís," Thórin said quietly. "The boys."

Dís turned and saw them listening in the doorway. A heavy sigh left her shoulders slumped. "It's late," she reminded, approaching and laying her hands on Kíli's shoulders. "You'd best be off to bed, both of you."

The protest came automatically. "But –"

"No buts." Dís kissed them both on the cheek and sent them off. Kíli wavered for a moment longer, mouth opening and closing like a fish's, but Fíli seized his hand and dragged him toward the stairs.

When they were up in their room, the rumbling of voices resumed through the floorboards. Fíli pushed Kíli down on the edge of the bed and hopped up behind him, reaching for the braids in his younger brother's hair. The silver beads clicked loose in his hands.

_They'll turn into wildlings as soon as I turn my back_. Dís's voice rang in his head and through the fuzziness, Kíli's belly clenched with something like worry.

"Ama calls me a wildling, sometimes," he admitted.

Fíli snorted. "'Cause you're a stubborn brat. She doesn't mean you _are_ one."

"Why does the queen think we are, then?"

"She's not a queen. Dáin's not a king, so she's not a queen." Fíli accidentally tugged too hard as he pulled the strands apart, and Kíli fought a wince. "She thinks we're not proper dwarves 'cause we don't have a mountain."

"We do so have a mountain." Kíli wrinkled his nose and grabbed his second braid, untying it by himself. His fingers moved quickly and nimbly through his hair, and he didn't care if it pulled. "Ered Luin is our mountain. She must be stupid."

"You're stupid, stupid. She means living _under_ a mountain. Like Erebor, before the dragon. With mines and gold and crowns, and things."

"So what, maybe we don't want to live under a mountain."

"Then we're wildings," said Fíli, full of the eldest's sensibility.

"Then we're _all _wildlings," pointed out Kíli. "Thórin and Master Balin and Master Dwalin, and all."

Lady Éira's words had made Dís angry, and though he didn't quite understand why, he was vehement, too. The drink burned like fire in his belly as he hopped up from the edge of the bed and faced his brother, hands planted on his sides.

"Can them dwarves beneath the mountain climb trees?"

Fíli thought on it and shook his head.

Kíli pressed, "Can they find n'pick the best apples, or race ponies, or build snow forts?"

Fíli caught on. "They prolly don't even know how to swim."

" – or move like ghosts in the forest!"

"I bet they don't have names for the stars."

At that, Fíli and Kíli grinned unabashedly at one another. They knew Lady Éira was wrong. In the minds of the young dwarflings, there was nothing _better_ than being born in exile.

_To be continued._

* * *

**Khuzdul Glossary:** (Sourced from _The Dwarrow Scholar_, with some additions by me where necessary.)

Adad: father

Amad: mother ("ama" is more like a term of affection – i.e. "mama")

Melhekh undu abad: King under the Mountain

Mizimuh: my jewel

Radad: uncle ("rada" being an affectionate term)

Rayad: heir


	2. Chapter 2

**Prince's Shadow**

_Skyborn Huntress_

**A/N: **Gimli is thirteen in dwarf years – five-ish in human terms.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

When Kíli opened his eyes, it was still dark in their room.

Despite that, an excited fluttering in his chest forestalled the thought of sleep. He threw off their pelt covers, slipped his feet to the cold floor, and rose on tiptoe over the creaking boards as he went searching for his clothes. When he tugged a bundled tunic off the floor, his practice sword fell out with a clatter.

"Oops," Kíli whispered.

Either Fíli was sleeping very deeply, or he was already awake, because the sound did not rouse him. Nevertheless, Kíli hastened to change, belting his tunic, sticking his practice sword through the belt-loop, combing his hair back in a messy ponytail.

He ran down to the kitchen and saw a flicker of blond as Fíli turned his head, following his motion across the kitchen. Dís clucked reprovingly, her hands in the thick of his hair.

"Hold still, Fíli. Where are you off to, little one?"

"Training," said Kíli, digging an apple out of the bowl. "But Fíli won't be coming 'cause of _business_."

He said it as sanctimoniously as Uncle Thórin, taking a big juicy bite of the apple. Out of Dís's sight, Fíli scowled at him.

But it was true. Whenever Rada hosted council meetings or important visits to the Underhall, he took Fíli along with him. The eldest brother stood ramrod-straight at his side, never speaking, never smiling, as Thórin carried out the duties of an exiled king. Someday, Kíli supposed, Fíli would have to know how to do those things. And sometimes, at the dinner table afterward, there would be questions for the heir. Thórin's tests were not like Master Balin's, who smiled gently and patiently corrected their Khuzdul. Those times, Kíli would eat in timid silence, watching Prince Fíli try his best to impress Rada. But unlike Master Balin, Thórin never smiled, not even when Fíli said everything right.

Today, Kíli supposed, Thórin and Fíli would be busy hosting Dáin in the Underhall all day. His brother's hair would have to be very, very nice for the occasion. Kíli grinned at the thought and scurried toward the door.

Dís laid aside her comb. "Now wait just a minute."

"Why?" said Kíli.

The look on his ama's face told him. _The prince's braids._

Kíli sat on the stool with a huff. He swung his legs idly as he watched, but Dís had only just started in on Fíli. His brother's hair was always a mess in the morning, too, with last night's braids having dissolved into a mane of frizzles that, in addition to the yellow scruff on his chin, made Fíli look awfully like a dishevelled lion cub. Kíli made faces at him and then just fidgeted, and then finally he couldn't wait any longer.

He screwed up his face in concentration as he put his sticky fingers through his hair, mimicking his ama's work as quickly as he could get away with. The braids were short and sloppy, but they were finished within five minutes.

"Done!" he shouted, leaping off the stool and running off with his sword.

"Now wait just a –" Dís's voice faded after him as the front door slammed.

Then Kíli was out, he was free, and his breath misted in the early autumn air as he raced down the road. There was no one to come panting after him, but he ran anyway, the wooden practice sword slapping against his leg, the tufty braids swatting at his cheeks. They did not bother him as much today. Practice couldn't be cancelled _twice_ in two days, and besides – Kíli grinned – he wasn't Prince Fíli, he didn't have to spend all day stiff and unsmiling around his cousins.

The first shops were just opening in Overhill as Kíli passed through the dwarvish village. Bofur with his usual funny hat was lifting the window shutters to his toy shop.

"Whoa, there, Kíli," he grinned as the raven-haired dwarfling darted underfoot.

"Good morning, goodbye, sorry!" Kíli had no time to stop and chat; he waved over his shoulder as he scurried off. Bofur's laugh carried after him until he turned around the next block.

Beyond Overhill, the sleepy thatched homes fell away to fenced pastures and fields of long grass; and beyond that still, on the edge of the woods, lay the dwarflings' training grounds.

Kíli's outstretched hands smacked against the old fence. "I win!" he shouted to the still morning air. Then, half-laughing, half-gasping, he leaned his temple against the wood, fighting to regain his breath. His heartbeat hammered wildly in his ears.

Usually, he raced Fíli here, and he would catch his breath and be perched, grinning, on the fence by the time his brother arrived. It wasn't that Fíli wasn't fast. _No one_ could catch Kíli.

After a few minutes, his steadying breath steaming in the early air, Kíli clambered over the fence. He looked around the court of hard-packed earth. Dawn light was only just lifting over the trees; he was incredibly early, and it would be some time before even Master Dwalin showed up.

Kíli flopped onto the ground and rolled over on his belly. The air was still and clear, but a touch of cold seeped through the front of his tunic. Soon winter would be upon the woods. When the first snows fell, he and Fíli would lash together snowshoes with rawhide lacings, and go tracking rabbits with Rada in the mountains. Back in Overhill, the forge-fires would be burning brighter, and Dís would spend the second week of the new year baking an excess of meat-pies to fill the cold stores. And maybe, if there was enough dough left over, she would make an apple pie just for the four of them. Kíli smiled indulgently, closing his eyes.

The grasses rustled. Kíli lifted his head, half-believing it was Fíli who had escaped his prince's training and come after him. But the new arrival was too short and too red-haired, dragging an overlarge short sword behind him.

Kíli's face fell a little. Gimli, son of Glóin, was in his first year of training. He and Fíli had long tired of their game of seeing who could push the thirteen-year-old over first. Yet, until Master Dwalin showed up, it looked as if he would have to make do.

With a sigh Kíli dragged himself off the ground.

Gimli was even more of a pushover than usual this morning, as he seemed unable to think of anything but the company's arrival yesterday. "Didja _see_ it?" he asked as he scrambled up from the dirt, snatching for his wooden sword after Kíli had knocked it from his hands. "Barazanthual! The axe that slew over a_ hundred_ Orcs!"

"Did it really?" asked Kíli, vaguely remembering a heavy-headed red axe in Dáin's belt.

Gimli's eyes glowed. "It did so! At the Battle of Anaz– Azanulbizar! You remember the stories, don't you?"

Master Balin often tried to get Kíli to remember their stories. He had volumes full of the Longbeards' history and legends – thick, musty tomes of ancient Khuzdul that made Kíli sneeze and his head spin. In places, the ink was so faded he struggled to read it at all; even where it was still legible, Kíli could never remember which Durin was which, nor quite stop himself from utterly mangling forgotten dates.

"Of course I remember," Kíli supplied vaguely. Restlessly he shifted, moving several paces back to give Gimli a running chance, and braced his feet in a basic guard position. Kíli lifted his sword. "Ready?"

"What _are_ you doing?"

The voice came from beyond the fence. Kíli looked up – shaking his braids impatiently out of his face – and saw a figure leaning against the old posts, watching them. The onlooker was not a full-grown dwarf. Without his fancy furs, cousin Thórin was closer to Fíli's size – short-statured, but built more heavily in the shoulders. One hand hooked around the hilt of a sword at his side.

There was a curl to Thorny's lips that Kíli immediately didn't like.

"Training," Kíli answered shortly. Across from him, Gimli's blade had drooped to his side as he gawked at the heir to the Iron Hills. Thorny wasn't _that_ impressive, Kíli thought. He didn't even have a beard. Restlessly Kíli flipped his wooden sword in his hand and Thorny's eyes roved toward it.

"Aren't you a bit old to play at fighting?"

Kíli bristled. "It's not _playing_. I'm twenty-eight, and better than you, prolly, so shut up!"

Thorny leaned forward against the fence. "_My_ masters let me handle steel when I was twenty."

"Master Dwalin says –" Gimli piped up, about to remind them all of the veteran warrior's lecture on how untrained, overeager dwarflings only wound up getting hurt with real weaponry.

Neither of the boys listened.

Kíli's ears went red and he clenched both hands on the hilt of his sword. "Stuff your masters. I don't need steel to beat you."

Thorny smirked, toying with the hilt at his side. "You've never even held a real sword, have you?"

"I have so!" Kíli shot back.

It had been one of Fíli's swords.

On occasion Fíli trained with the dwarflings, when Rada wasn't calling him away, but mostly he took private instruction from Master Dwalin. Uncle Thórin had given him his first pair of swords when he was twenty-five. Later, when he mastered the forge, he would be expected to fashion his own. For now, though, it was enough for Thórin to say that his heir was a prodigy, born to wield a sword in either hand.

Yet, when they sparred in secret outside of lessons, away from Master Dwalin's sharp eyes, Fíli let his younger brother borrow one. When the eldest restricted himself to a single blade, Kíli almost stood a chance against him.

Almost.

Kíli shifted forward into an offensive stance, shoulders hunched, sword raised. "Come on, then!" he challenged. "If you're so good, let's see it!"

"Master Dwalin says –" Gimli said anxiously.

"_Shut up_ about Master Dwalin!"

Duels – serious, no-holds-barred duels – were prohibited when the warmaster was not supervising them. Even Fíli would get in trouble if Dwalin learned about their sword-swapping and their escapades. But in that moment, Kíli didn't care. His heartbeat quickened, thundering in his ears, and he glared out at Thorny from beneath his fringe.

"It'd be no fun beating someone who can't fight back." Thorny sniffed and gave him a last once-over glance. When he turned away, he did not quite manage to hide his smirk. "Now, I'm going to see about getting _my_ sword sharpened – if you'll excuse me."

With that, the copper-haired dwarfling swaggered off.

Kíli's vision went red. His hands shook and clenched tighter on the grip of his sword. "_Liar_! Liar, get back here! You were lying 'bout your stupid masters!"

But Thorny was gone.

Kíli flung his practice sword across the ground in sheer frustration. Gimli shot him a wide-eyed, worried look. He ignored the younger dwarfling; Kíli swung about suddenly and paced across the field. With his back to his sparring partner he pulled in several long, shuddering breaths, fighting to stop his hands from trembling.

A prince should hold his tongue and stay his hand. He _should._

But Thorny was no prince and, worst of all, his barbs found their mark.

Kíli was the oldest of Dwalin's protégés on the wooden swords by at least three years. He was not quite the biggest, nor the strongest, of the dwarflings. Ama had assured him that her brother Frérin had been scrawny and gangling as a dwarfling, too; he would grow into a dwarf's solid stature by the time he was forty, she promised.

But in the end, Kíli knew _biggest _or _strongest_ did not matter: he was the _best_. He was always the last one standing in their skirmishes, and he was quick and light on his feet, compensating for his lack of muscle. He deserved to have his own sword by now. It wasn't fair that Fíli had graduated to his twin swords when he was twenty-five; and even though he was nearing thirty, Uncle Thórin had never said a word about letting Kíli have _one_.

Kíli scuffed at the wet dirt with his heel and simmered. By now, the morning mists had lifted; the sun climbed above the trees. It was dawning on him that Master Dwalin would not be coming today. He had to be preoccupied in meetings with Rada and Fíli. The loss of another day's training made him bitter, but so too Kíli couldn't deny a dark sort of satisfaction. Thorny was Dáin's first heir, but _he_ didn't have the privilege of attending the meeting.

(Kíli ignored the fact that he had never been invited to Rada's meetings, either. But he was Kíli-just-Kíli; it was not something expected of him, nor that troubled him at the moment.)

_It's no fun beating someone who can't fight back._

Kíli's fists clenched at his sides. _Liar, liar, liar,_ he raged against the smirk in his mind.

He could _too_ fight back. He knew how dwarvish blood feuds worked. Master Balin had explained them once in his lessons (and, swordfights being interesting, Kíli had been paying particular attention that day). Thorny had slighted him, and thus had slighted his family's name. It was his _right_ to contest him, in public, and if Thorny refused to pay amends, the decision would fall to swords and axes.

Now he only needed a sword.

Kíli's heart thundered against his ribs. He thought of Fíli and knew his brother would lend him a blade if he asked . . . well, _maybe_ he would. Even Prince Fíli couldn't deny the customs of their people, Kíli rationalized. Yet, he was sure to be stern about it, and say presumptuous things like _princes ought to keep their heads_.

Worse, Kíli remembered, Fíli would be in the peace-halls with Rada and Master Dwalin and the rest. Even if he managed to catch his brother alone, Master Dwalin would see him handling Fíli's sword and guess about the secret duels, and Fíli would get in trouble. No, asking Fíli was no good.

But if Uncle Thórin was at the Underhall . . . his forge would be empty.

The thought hit him and Kíli's heart flipped in his chest. The possibility was more terrifying than facing down Thorny with all of Overhill looking on, but Kíli could not let himself think twice on it. He needed a sword.

And so, without quite acknowledging that he was moving, his feet carried him across the training field.

"Where are you going?"

Kíli had forgotten Gimli. The young dwarfling scrambled after him, his wooden sword still in his hand.

"Rada's forge," he said flatly.

Gimli's eyes went wide. "You're not – not really gonna do it. Are you?"

Kíli turned on his heel. Gimli stopped before he bumped into him. He was a head shorter than Kíli, clumsier and not nearly as quick. And yet, a half-year of Master Dwalin's regime had already sturdied his stance and broadened the dwarfling's shoulders beneath his practice tunic. Someday, when he was strong enough, and stopped dropping his sword, he would be a fierce opponent.

Kíli was not afraid of him now, though.

"Do what?" he asked coolly.

Gimli didn't want to say it. He shuffled his feet and offered the words in a bare whisper. "_Steal a sword_."

"And if I am?" Kíli challenged. "Would you tell Rada?"

Gimli hesitated, and Kíli read the debate in his wide eyes. Telling Thórin Oakenshield would, of course, be the proper thing to do. Kíli was planning to break dozens of rules, and besides, he could get badly hurt. Master Dwalin was always telling them sharp blades and heavy axes would be as dangerous to them as their enemies until they learned to treat them proper. But as worried as he was, he did not want Kíli to be punished because he told.

"You'll get hurt," he said instead, hoping to sway the stubborn prince.

"Hurt _him_, more like," Kíli muttered. "Now come on and stand watch, if you've got the guts for it."

* * *

In the end, it was not particularly hard to procure a sword from Thórin's forge. Rada was meeting with Dáin down in Zahargund, the great mead-hall dug out of the flank of the mountain. It was the most dwarvish place in Overhill: the Underhall had been built by their chisels and hands in the days of Kíli's grandfather, before he had gone missing. In any case, Kíli was confident Rada would be away all day.

Leaving Gimli hovering nervously outside, Kíli jiggled the lock and crept into the forge. A blast of warn air hit him, smelling of ash and leather and sawdust. Kíli ignored the glowing eyes of embers in the hearth; he pulled his collar over his nose to stop himself from coughing and tiptoed toward the racks.

Rada was always working at a half-dozen weapons needing repair or on order. Most of his commissions came from the neighbouring villages of Men, who offered him foodstuffs and livestock in return for his smithing. Thórin did not work full-time like the smiths of Overhill, who honed their craft over long years of experience. Yet, his was the work of a king; he had learned his secrets from Thráin, who had learned from Thrór, who had drawn up his gold and iron from the heart of Erebor.

Now Thórin was teaching their art to Fíli, and sometimes he came up for the night with black soot staining his hands and the tip of his nose. Fíli was good at the forge, like he was good at everything else. But when only Kíli was there to hear, he confessed he did not like it very much: when the forge burned hot, he felt trapped within its walls; its low ceiling bore down on him, and sometimes ash clogged so thickly in his throat he couldn't breathe properly for hours afterwards.

Kíli did not like the forge much, either, and he hastened to look over Thórin's weapon racks.

Several of his current orders were heavy axes. There was a broadsword that was longer than Kíli was, and his arms nearly wrenched from their sockets when he tried to lift it. Kíli forced it aside, panting. His throat felt thick, and he coughed.

Then he saw it.

"It" was a thin steel blade, half buried beneath the broadsword. He slid it loose from its tasselled sheath and caught his breath while he admired it. At once, he saw it was not of dwarvish make: it was far too thin, too disconcertingly light. Yet, when he touched his thumb to its edge he drew blood. Kíli leaped into a few lunges, comparing the quivering steel to his sturdy little wooden sword.

This would do.

When he stepped outside, Gimli looked nervously at the sheath tied to his side.

"I'll tell," he burst out. Kíli knew at once that Gimli had spent the entire time he had been inside the smithy building up the courage to say it.

"I _will_," Gimli pressed, noting the hard look on his face. "I – I swear –"

Kíli sucked idly at his bloodied thumb. "Fine, go and tell. Then Rada'll know you didn't stop me."

Gimli bit his lip and straightened his shoulders. "I'll tell _Fíli_."

Kíli accidentally bit his thumb.

"You wouldn't," he accused, but the widening of his eyes betrayed him.

Uncle Thórin's punishments did not scare him anymore. Kíli had been in and out of every imaginable kind of trouble by now, so Thórin only shook his head, offered a few stern (soon-to-be-forgotten) words in the presence of other dwarves, and sent him off for the usual. "The usual" alternated between mucking out the stables, cleaning the forge, and emptying the rodent traps in the fields, all of which were very boring but familiar tasks. Thórin would be mad about the missing sword, but Kíli wouldn't mind enduring all three punishments if it meant besting Thorny.

But Fíli was different. His brother had been Prince Fíli lately, and Kíli doubted that Prince Fíli would support his venture. _Princes ought to do what they want,_ Fíli would agree; but Prince Fíli would tell him _Princes do what they're told_, which really meant _Princes do nothing fun at all_. And Dáin's family were their guests, and they were supposed to be respectful and nice to his folk and certainly not start fights with his son.

"I _will_," said Gimli bravely.

Kíli studied the young dwarfling, wondering if he was bluffing, wondering if he could risk it. He could run faster than anybody. He could leave Gimli standing in the dust and maybe find Thorny and maybe give him what was coming before he was found out, but maybe he wouldn't find him at all.

Kíli's hand fell on the hilt at his side. The strange sword's sheath was heavier than his practice one, but only just, and he curled his fist around the leather-wrapped hilt. It seemed stupid to turn back after he had come this far. He wouldn't think twice on it.

Kíli squared his shoulders.

"Let's go, Gimli."

"Where?" The dwarfling eyed him nervously.

Kíli rolled his eyes. "The Underhall. Or weren't you gonna tell Fíli I stole Rada's sword?"

_To be continued._


End file.
